


Lessons in Wanting

by Decepticonsensual



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:00:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25054285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decepticonsensual/pseuds/Decepticonsensual
Summary: Attachments are forbidden for Jedi, but that doesn't mean celibacy is required.  Which, for a clutch of young Jedi whose main company is one another, has some... predictable results.Or, just a little M-rated fun with twentysomething Qui-Gon Jinn, a fellow padawan, and a supply closet. :)  And maybe a lesson.  Or two.
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn/Plo Koon
Comments: 5
Kudos: 16





	Lessons in Wanting

“Owww!”

“Sorry! Sorry.”

“No, that wasn’t you – something’s digging into my back. Hang on.”

Qui-Gon Jinn reaches behind him and tries to feel around for the offending object. It isn’t an easy task. It’s dark in here, for one, and for another, he’s trying to locate it one-handed; his left hand is still fisted in the front of his fellow padawan’s robes after dragging him into the supply closet, and Qui-Gon is finding he isn’t interested in letting go just yet.

He closes his eyes, and reaches out with the Force instead, attempting to zero in on the source of the discomfort, but the Force around the two of them is… disturbed, crackling with frayed, electric energies, and oh, now there are talons doing _deliciously_ distracting things to his hair…

Qui-Gon groans a little in frustration, and feels as much as hears the huff of laughter against the skin of his throat.

“You’re not helping.”

“Sorry.” This time around, it sounds distinctly unrepentant. The hand that comes to rest on his hip only underlines that impression. Qui-Gon is about to point this out, when the _other_ arm snakes around his waist, and there’s a sharp tug somewhere amid the stack of supplies he’s leaning against, and then whatever was sticking into his lower back is gone.

Plo Koon holds the stylus up to show Qui-Gon. He even twirls it a little between the tips of his claws, and however scant the light is in here, Qui-Gon can still make out that shit-eating grin around the edges of the filter mask. “Was this it?”

“ _Yes,_ actually, much appreciated.” Qui-Gon returns his full attention – and both hands – to the task of tugging Plo closer against him. “Now. Where were we?”

Plo makes what Qui-Gon can only describe as a _purr,_ deep in his throat, and nuzzles under Qui-Gon’s jaw. It’s the oddest sensation, warm metal and hot breath and the faintest prickle of those mask-encased tusks against his neck; the combination never fails to send an electric jolt right down Qui-Gon’s spine. He gasps, and Plo chuckles.

Qui-Gon’s revenge comes swiftly, though. Nails tracing over the curve of Plo’s ear; fingertips digging in, almost roughly, at the back of his neck, and Plo is already starting to melt. Qui-Gon allows himself a smile before pressing his advantage. They’ve only done this a handful of times, but it’s enough for them to have learned each other’s weak spots. Qui-Gon moves in slowly, letting Plo feel his warmth and his breath, letting him _anticipate,_ before tilting Plo’s head back and licking a long stripe down his neck, lapping at the hollow at the base of his throat.

Plo whimpers. His skin feels like it’s on fire under Qui-Gon’s mouth. Qui-Gon marvels, yet again, at how responsive Plo is – native Kel Dor telepathy, perhaps, picking up on Qui-Gon’s hunger and amplifying it back to him. Both of them have been well-trained in how to wall off their minds, but just at this moment, Qui-Gon knows his shields are sloppy and he doesn’t care. Doesn’t care whether it’s experience or instinct or his own silently broadcast desire that makes Plo wrap those talented fingers around Qui-Gon’s padawan braid and give it a good yank; the pleasurable sting only serves to sharpen Qui-Gon’s appetite, and he moans against Plo’s neck.

Which is when they hear footsteps in the hallway just outside, and, like the expertly trained Jedi almost-Knights they are, immediately burst into panicked giggles.

“ _Shhhh!_ ”

“You _shhhhh_!”

The footsteps stop. Qui-Gon has almost the entire sleeve of his robe stuffed into his mouth to try and stifle his laughter, and Plo’s face is buried against Qui-Gon’s chest, little muffled, frantic sounds occasionally drifting up as he tries to do the same.

An eternity passes.

The footsteps move on.

Plo lifts his head, touching his forehead to Qui-Gon’s as the last of their laughter fades. “That was close. We should hurry, in _cassssse –_ ”

The reason the last word breaks off into a hiss is that Qui-Gon smiles, hooks one leg over Plo’s hip, and uses it to pull their bodies together.

And _oh,_ the shock of that sudden contact, the clawed hands sliding up his chest now, Plo’s breath in his ear; it’s so tempting to rush ahead, to just let the wave of those feelings swamp him and carry him. But there’s one more thing Qui-Gon wants, if he’s permitted.

He pulls back a little so he can look at Plo. “Is it dark enough in here? I mean, could you...” With the hand that isn’t cupping the other padawan’s cheek, Qui-Gon gestures to his own eyes. “Would you be able to take the goggles off, or would it hurt your eyes?”

“It wouldn’t hurt.” Plo’s voice is soft, and he makes no move to actually remove them.

Qui-Gon offers him a smile. The last thing he wants is to push past what’s comfortable. And truly, this – this is enough, whatever Plo wants to give him. “It’s all right. We don’t need to –”

And maybe that’s all the reassurance Plo needed, because he reaches up, brushing the intricate chain of his own “braid” out of the way, and takes the goggles off.

Qui-Gon knew, intellectually, that Force-sensitive Kel Dor bear the marks of that affinity on their bodies, that their eyes differ from the species’ usual black. Somehow, that doesn’t quite prepare him for the luminous silver of Plo’s eyes. In the dark, it’s like looking at twin moons.

“Beautiful,” he breathes, and the anxious tension around the edges of Plo’s mask melts away.

Qui-Gon kisses him, his forehead, the corners of his eyes, his throat; Plo sighs. It’s a whole new dimension, somehow, being able to see the moments when his eyes flutter close, or squeeze shut when something Qui-Gon does wrings a moan out of him.

Another time, he thinks, he could watch Plo like this for days. Right now, they’re both too eager, and it isn’t long before the kisses turn to licks and bites and Qui-Gon’s mouth just open against Plo’s skin, panting, as those talons _undo_ him, as they rock together and _oh, there, yes –_

Afterwards, they probably spend a solid minute just trying to determine whether the corridor outside is really empty, first through the Force, then by poking their heads out the door with exaggerated care. As they finally step out of the supply closet, Qui-Gon catches Plo’s eye – through the goggles, now back in place – and laughs ruefully. “Force, I’m getting paranoid. Even if we don’t get _caught-_ caught, I still worry – sometimes, it feels like Master Dooku can see right through my skull, shields or no shields.”

“At least you don’t have to contend with a Wookie’s sense of smell,” Plo says, straightening in his robes as best he can.

“With a – _oh._ ” Qui-Gon can only imagine what his own face looks like as his thoughts cycle from understanding, to distaste, to horror, but it’s clearly quite a sight, as his expressions set Plo off laughing again. “Wait, so how have you been throwing Tyvokka off the – you know.”

“ _Scent_?” Plo shakes his head, still chuckling. “Thorough showers and particularly noxious incense. And speaking of showering...”

“Yes, we should both go. May the Force be with you, Plo Koon.”

“May the Force be with you, Qui-Gon Jinn.”

It is not especially restrained, or wise, that Qui-Gon – after one last hasty check in both directions to make sure no one’s coming – dart forward and plants a kiss on Plo’s cheek before rushing off, but the way Plo looks at him makes it worth it.

***

“A particularly conscientious pupil, you have raised, my former padawan,” Master Yoda opines, as he strolls through the lush gardens of the Room of a Thousand Fountains at Master Dooku’s side, Qui-Gon following just behind. “Taking the initiative to improve the Temple on his own, he is.”

“Indeed, Master Yoda?”

“Mmmm. Yesterday, heard him reorganising one of the supply closets, I did, as I passed by.”

“ _Oh?_ ” And this time, there’s a steely note in the purr of Master Dooku’s voice, as he turns to fix Qui-Gon with his stare.

Qui-Gon swallows, and somehow manages to smile at him. He aims for “blandly pleasant”. He’s almost certain he’s failing, given that he can _feel_ his cheeks burning.

“More quiet, he could be, next time.” Master Yoda’s own smile is beatific. Qui-Gon briefly contemplates diving into the nearest shrubbery and starting a new life as a fruit tree.

And then, of all the _cursed_ luck – or possibly Master Yoda’s machinations – they turn a corner in the path, and there’s a cluster of padawans talking quietly just ahead of them… including Plo. Which is the moment Master Yoda chooses to say in a carrying voice, “But glad I was, that enlist help in organising the supply closet, your padawan did.”

Plo immediately freezes.

“Yes, indeed,” Master Dooku replies in a similar tone. “Clearly a two-padawan job.”

It’s a small mercy that Kel Dor don’t blush; something about the blood vessels being further from the surface of the skin. However, given Plo’s sudden ramrod stillness and the fact that Qui-Gon’s own face is _on fire,_ he suspects that they’re about as subtle as an invasion siren.

His party continues strolling, Masters Yoda and Dooku nodding graciously to the assembled padawans. Qui-Gon simply walks with his gaze locked straight ahead. He doesn’t dare make eye contact with Plo, but even without looking, he can sense the frizzle of their mutual horror and confusion – a sort of shared psychic _what the kriff._

At the edge of the gardens, Master Yoda bids them farewell and wanders off, a small, serene figure slowly vanishing into the distance.

“I sometimes wonder,” Master Dooku says idly, “whether the Jedi teachings on attachment and – desire – are as nuanced as they should be.”

“Master?”

“It is not a fault to want, Qui-Gon. It is that wanting comes with a price.” Master Dooku pats his shoulder and begins to walk away, then half-turns back. “You must decide, now that you are on the cusp of becoming a Knight, which prices are worth paying.”

**Author's Note:**

> So, this may require a little explanation. :)
> 
> I was reading some of the Star Wars comics from the late 2000s - the Stark Hyperspace War arc - and there's a sequence where a young, recently-knighted Plo Koon keeps pestering his former Master to let "my good friend Qui-Gon" come with them on their mission. And it just struck me as being very like someone asking a parent, "But can my boyfriend come with us?" and I made a half-joking comment on social media that Plo Koon and Qui-Gon Jinn used to date.
> 
> And you know what they say: The minute you joke about a ship is the minute you start shipping it in earnest. Et voila. :D
> 
> (This was also supposed to be pure PWP, but then Dooku happened. I'm not 100% clear on the timeline of Dooku's fall, but in my interpretation, he's already starting to edge in the direction of the Sith at this point - there is no peace, there is only passion - and he's not above giving Qui-Gon a nudge.)


End file.
